


We’ll Have Time (For Coffee-Flavored Kisses And A Bit Of Conversation)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Dessert Is Important, First Date, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Imperfectly Perfect Moments, M/M, Rain, Things Going Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First dates, awkwardness, adorable boys being adorably in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ll Have Time (For Coffee-Flavored Kisses And A Bit Of Conversation)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as comment!fic for a McFassy Daily Delicious post. Title courtesy of The Monkees’ “Last Train To Clarksville”.

“It's our first proper date. You said you'd be here at seven. It's quarter to eight. And you didn't answer your phone.”

“Um,” Michael said, and stood there, and tried not to drip rainwater on the floor, or the table, or James. The former two proved to be impossible; James, on the other hand, was out of reach, on the other side of the table, not getting up, looking at him with unreadable blue eyes, calm on the surface but there must be turbulence in the ocean depths, had to be, James wouldn’t be trying so hard if there was nothing to hide.

“I was trying very hard not to picture you dead in a ditch somewhere, just so you know.”

“Would you believe that I was trying to buy you flowers and got lost and dropped my phone in a puddle and had to ask for directions?”

“Not necessarily.”  
  
In the pause, possibilities collided, broke, dissolved into the night. Michael started to apologize, stopped, tried again. Couldn’t talk, faced with those eyes.

Of course James wouldn’t believe that. _He_ wouldn’t believe that. And it _was_ their first date. Not a hotel room hook-up, not a post-filming collapse, too tired for sex, only the two of them holding each other in bed, against the exhaustion of the night. A real date. He’d been trying to do this right. James deserved that.

James deserved better.

He opened his mouth to try the apology again, and the television, lurking gleefully up on the wall and tuned to a terrible celebrity gossip channel, nothing either of them’d ever _ever_ watch, chose that moment to display beautiful stalker-paparazzi shots of Michael sprinting forlornly through the rain. “ …and in other news, we've just spotted actor Michael Fassbender looking extremely stressed and very wet and cursing at his mobile phone…”

James looked up. At the television. Blinked. Twice. “…oh.”

“I did try to buy you flowers. They sort of got…incredibly…rained on. But I saved you one…” That probably shouldn’t’ve sounded like a question. Carefully, he extracted the final pathetic damp little sunflower from the inside of his jacket. Held it out. Hopelessly.

James looked at the sunflower, this time. Not at Michael’s face. Said, after a second, very slowly, “It's kind of late for dinner…”

“I know. I know, I'm so sorry, James, I—”

“…so I think you should come home with me instead. For dessert.”


End file.
